Fast Awake
by Draconian Scribe
Summary: He knows that it does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live... But who's to say that dreams aren't as real as fear and hate? Love and pain? They all exist, yet only within the human mind. In the end, what does "living" even mean? DM/HG. Year 6.
1. Fire & Ice

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READERS: Bex-chan, silverbluewords**

**WARNINGS: Mild violence, non-con/rape, psychological trauma, strong profanity, and unresolved sexual tension.**

* * *

CHAPTER ONE: FIRE & ICE

* * *

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

_From what I've tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favor fire._

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And would suffice._

—Robert Frost (_New Hampshire, _1923)

* * *

So cold… The numbness comforted him in an odd way. He could lie here for all eternity and never wake up again. The nothingness anchored him to the stony foundation with its chilling embrace. And yet, within this nothingness, more existed for him here than there ever did in life.

Beside him laid the absence of fear, and the slackening of its possessive, indelible grip upon his left forearm. The absence of guilt and sorrow for all the lives he planned to take, merely to extend his own miserable existence. The absence of staggering expectations that forced his crippled spirit to its knees every time he tried to rise to them. The absence of the traitorous, sudden movements of the only thing that kept him alive and pulsated with purpose. He filled the hollow shell of his surroundings with nothingness, finding solace in the sheer absence of it all.

Somewhere, on the edge of his drifting consciousness, he registered the faint trills of an eerily familiar voice calling out to him. Not yet ready to awaken and surrender to another day of cruel reality, he paid it no heed. Nothing remained for him out there. In darkness, he forever longed to stay, lost in dreamless slumber and the shadow of the beyond.

The voice faded away as he retreated deeper into his self-constructed refuge. He felt himself relax with the elation of his short-lived triumph; it freed him from the confines of the physical world, and at long last, he floated away, sinking down into the depths of uncharted waters through which no one could follow.

The voice apparently had other plans. It redoubled its efforts to drag him back into the mortal realm, its blatant persistence stirring the first torrents of an aggravated tempest into life. Actual, coherent words thundered across grey skies, halting his voyage towards the ultimate rest in peace.

_Malfoy?_

_..._

_Malfoy!_

_..._

_MALFOY!_

_..._

_Great Godric, of all the times for you to finally shut your stupid mouth…_

_..._

_GET UP, YOU USELESS GIT!_

Lightning struck the side of his face, blinding him with brilliant, searing pain and jolting him back into the very reality that he had longed so fervently to escape.

"BLOODY _HELL!_" he roared, his hands flying to the inflamed skin, singed with the imprint of a petite and particularly bold hand. The sheer audacity! Bloodlust boiled and rushed through his system, his eyes ripping open with murderous intent.

Immediately, his vision watered and blurred, and the world tilted off the edge, hazy and distorted with agonised shock. A gasping sob to his right alerted him to the perpetrator's presence.

"MALFOY! Oh, _Merlin,_ I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hit you that hard! I just—I mean—I thought—oh, sod it! One minute, I was asleep in my dormitory, then I woke up, I'm here with _you,_ of all people, I haven't the faintest idea how I got here, and y—you were just _lying_ there! I called for help, but no one answered, so I panicked! I didn't know what else to do! I tried to wake you, but you wouldn't even say a word, o—or _budge,_ for Godric's sake, and I was so afraid that—"

"YOU CRAZY BINT!" he snarled, viciously slicing off her inane rambling. "WHAT IN THE _BLAZES _WERE YOU THINKING? YOU CALL THIS 'WAKING' ME?"

"I'm sorry!" she wailed, wavering on the verge of tears. "I'm so sorry! I don't know what I was thinking! I was so scared that something had happened to you! Oh, _Merlin, _I can't believe that's the second time I've done that to you!"

Despite her flustered trembling, she took a deep breath, as if bracing for the worst, and proceeded to soothingly pry his hands away from his face. His vehement denial of her pitiful attempts to appease him finally convinced her to give up, instead inspiring her to _forcefully _pry his hands away from his face. Ignoring his growling protests, she gently feathered over the sting. He cringed at the softness of her skin smoothing against his, so stunned that he nearly forgot all about his need to kill her. Nearly.

Then she started talking again.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, you deserved that first one. That one felt good. Merlin knows you were being such an insufferable prick… Alright, maybe you didn't do anything to deserve it this time, but I had to do something! How else was I supposed to get you to wake up? Honestly, it wasn't like CPR was an option. That would've gotten us _both _killed, and really, what would be the sense in that? I suppose I _could've_ doused you with water, but Godric forbid, that would ruin your hair, and like the predictable, arrogant ponce you are, you'd be in an even more piss-poor mood," she muttered to herself, clearly more concerned with consoling her own conscience than his. He bristled at that last statement. He prayed to Salazar that his vision cleared up soon, so that he could hex this blithering, unidentified wench into oblivion.

Did she _ever_ stop talking? With that constant, never-ending stream of logorrhoea spewing forth from her bottomless maw, she could go from screaming at him to apologising to him, slapping him to coddling him, and comforting him to insulting him—all in one breath!

And CPR? Never heard of it! The nameless madwoman had probably abbreviated the spell for some sort of dangerous, necromantic reanimation ritual that not only involved the gruesome violation of both the corpse and the spell-caster, but also the unspeakable debasement of several vital bodily functions. What a load of shite! Perhaps it stood for Carcass-Palliating Resurrection, or something equally as disconcerting and distastefully verbose. Honestly, the raving loon just prattled on and on... Merlin's _bleeding_ beard! Did the transgressions never cease? The nerve of this neurotic, mental—wait… Did she say that she'd already slapped him twice?

In that gut-wrenching moment of clarity and dramatic irony, the mud-coloured blob quivering beside him sharpened into focus and he found himself face-to-face with the wide, mud-coloured eyes and bushy, mud-coloured mane of the only mortal that had ever inflicted bodily harm upon his person and lived to tell the tale.

"DON'T _TOUCH _ME, YOU _FILTHY_ MUDBLOOD!" he bellowed, the cruel slur wrenched from him in a bestial, livid gnashing of his teeth. He savagely shoved her away and leapt to his feet, drawing his wand.

She barely squeaked in surprise as she toppled over, her muddy eyes roiled with indignation at his brutal reaction to her ministrations. It didn't last long. Calmly, she picked herself up, not even bothering to take out her wand, dusted off her prim-and-proper, regulation-length uniform, and crossed her arms as if she really couldn't give a rat's arse.

"Well, then," she mused, the words dripping with sarcasm. "I suppose I owe you another apology, o lord of all prats. I pray that you will find it somewhere in that mouldering, black pit you call a heart to forgive me for being _so_ concerned."

_Breathe, Draco. Breathe! _He had to remind himself to breathe before he exploded with his own pent-up rage. Only Hermione Granger could remain such a prissy, infuriating know-it-all in the face of imminent death. He tried to think of the most creative way he could torture her and draw out her suffering without causing any excessive bleeding or shedding of any other revolting essence of her abominable existence upon the natural world, finally settling for the trademark Malfoy sneer to buy him some time.

"Save your breath, Mudblood. You're polluting the air that _real _witches and wizards need to breathe, and your apology's worth about as much as to me as the dirt that clogs your veins."

She hummed with contemptuous mockery. "And here I was, assuming that you didn't even know the meaning of the word. Godric almighty, there might be hope for you yet!"

"Nearly gave myself a right nasty shock there too, I'll admit," he agreed. "It really is more of a Gryffindor's cup of tea, what with bloody heroes from the bloody House of eating rainbows and shitting butterflies, jumping and spying on unsuspecting blokes all the bloody time, but it's alright, at least they apologise after! The House of chivalry indeed! It's no bloody wonder Pothead sleeps so well at night!"

She answered with a simpering, artificially sweetened smirk. "I've always been curious as to why you seem to hate Harry so much, but clearly it's the exact opposite! I mean, going so far as to fantasise about him sleeping at night? Honestly, it explains a lot! You poor, ferret-faced Pygmy Puff, you always were too obsessed for your own good."

Instead of incensing him further, a chill leaked down his spine, freezing his heart in terror, hitting a bit too close to home for his comfort. Not about Potter, of course, but someone else entirely… Someone almost as disturbing. His expression darkened, and the turbulence churning in his stone-cold eyes appeared to quell—the artfully concealed violence reminiscent of the calm before the storm.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he hissed dangerously. "Don't think, even for a second, that you know _anything _about what I want. You're such a prude; no bloke in his right mind would ever want to shag _you._ Those wretched sods that you call 'friends' don't even realise that you're a girl!"

She raised an eyebrow. If his spiteful words had somehow managed to wound her, she did not show it. With a fierce glint in her eye, she rose to the challenge.

"Did I hit a nerve there, Malfoy? Excuse me while I try to contemplate the idea of you actually having feelings."

Taken aback and morbidly fascinated by her impressive resilience, he spat back, "Splendid! Seeing as how you don't even have your wand out, I presume that you plan to resort to more uncivilised Muggle tactics in order to vent your frustrations! So, what'll it be, Mudblood? Going to beat the truth out of me using sheer, primal instinct?"

"And you shoving me to the floor like some squeamish ninny is _so _much more refined," she retorted, not even missing a beat.

His normally handsome, aristocratic features twisted nastily. "Refinement is reserved for _real _people, not inferior creatures of near-human intelligence. I was merely putting you in your rightful place, which, incidentally, lies at my feet."

"Clearly, you have me confused with some other purebred harlot that will have the misfortune to be chained to you someday. Since you don't have a sister, I assume that this would have to be the next closest relative. Perhaps a cousin?" she shot back, her leer of defiance as condescending as his own.

"Why don't your ask your good friends, the Weasleys? It certainly explains why they always breed more rodents than they can afford," he drawled.

"That all depends. Are you watching? Merlin knows that's the closest you'll ever get to any real action… or a family that actually _cares._ So, tell me, Malfoy, who are you desperately seeking attention from this time? Poor Ron? Or sweet, innocent _Ginny?"_ she unabashedly jeered back.

His temper finally hit the roof. "I WOULD RATHER DIE, OR _WORSE, _HAVE HALFBREED SPAWN WITH A _MUDBLOOD_ THAN TOUCH A WEASLEY!"

She sniffed in disdain. "And they say _I _need to sort out my priorities."

Hovering upon the brink of madness, he abandoned all pretence of composure. "I RECKON I'D DIE ANYWAY, FROM THE _GOD-AWFUL _INFECTION!"

"Why don't I spare you the agony and reassure you that even if we were the last two people on Earth—" she abruptly broke off, her eyes widening and her complexion visibly blanching. "Oh, Merlin," she gasped, whipping around to survey their surroundings. "Where _is _everyone?"

With both of them so absorbed in their little spat, neither one of them had given a second thought as to the world around them. They both stood in the Great Hall, at a rare and temporary loss of words, completely and utterly alone.

Taking charge of the situation, Granger bolted out the doors into the entrance hall and dashed off to investigate in the usual Gryffindor fashion, her footsteps leaving him behind and echoing ominously throughout the empty castle.

Draco, still blinking in confusion at the abrupt turn of events, pondered the situation. The enchanted ceiling reflected a snowy, winter sky, blotched with the ink of midnight. Snow? In September? Term hadn't even started, and he couldn't say that he recalled seeing anything peculiar when he'd stepped off the train that night, although truthfully, he did have more pressing matters to mull over at the time than dodgy weather anomalies.

Although the Hall itself appeared deserted, it remained illuminated as if still in use for the daily feasts. How odd. How had the entire castle _not _overheard the two of them bickering amongst the ricochets of snide remarks, slanderous innuendo, and childish—yet necessary—name-calling that ensued when thusly engaged in a verbal duel to defend one's honour? Not even that Squib and his blighted cat lurked anywhere in sight.

How did he even end up here in the first place? Come to think of it, he vividly recalled retiring to his own quarters in the Slytherin dormitory and reeling at the horrific sight that had greeted him. Pansy had lain sprawled wantonly upon his bed as if she owned it, clad only in a ghastly slapper ensemble at least two sizes too small, her pug face appraising him with a lecherous grin that would deflate a raging hard-on in seconds.

The cooing, the petting, and the occasional grooming he could handle. In fact, on good days, he even relished the attention. But this… This breached a whole new level of overly familiar displays of affection—no, _invasion_—that he absolutely, and unequivocally, would not tolerate from anyone.

Seething with sickened mortification, he'd booted the minging trollop out of his room, with half a mind to banish her permanently, and cursed the Four Founders for not having the foresight to extend the gender wards to the stairs leading up to the boys' dormitories. Sometimes, even blokes could use some protection from undesirable sexual trauma. Bleeding chauvinists. He had then proceeded to sit on the edge of his newly vindicated bed for more than an hour, struggling to empty his mind of all thought—not to mention the usual bountiful assortment of disturbing images—to ensure the effectiveness of his mental barriers.

Even then, he had still managed to steal away a moment or two to gloat disgustingly over wiping the floor with Potter's ugly, scarred mug earlier that evening, finally drifting off into a fitful sleep, determined not to dream about—

"—ME!" Granger shrieked, bursting back into the Great Hall and nearly causing him to jolt a good five or six centimetres into the air. "This is all part of some dozy, ill-conceived plan to do ME in, isn't it, Malfoy? Me, Harry, and everyone else who's cottoned on to you and your lily-livered attempts at Dark Magic! OUT WITH IT! Where are we? What have you done with my friends? And don't you _dare_ lie to me, you spineless snake—"

He snorted in derision. "If I _really_ wanted you to snuff it, Mudblood, I wouldn't waste my time planning it. I would just…" Here, he trailed off, turning his nose up and slightly off to the side, feigning haughty indifference. "…_DO _IT!" he finished, snapping his head back and striking without warning.

Granger drew her wand out faster than his eyes could trace the movement and expertly deflected his hastily aimed curse. Of course, he hadn't really aimed to kill, but Merlin knows he just wanted to knock that priggish cow right on her frumpy arse for daring to accuse him of something so ridiculously absurd.

Pegging it faster than his own Head of House when confronted with shampoo, both of them dove off in opposite directions, taking cover behind the nearest inanimate objects and proceeding to hurl jinxes, hexes, and all manner of atrocities at one another—either magical, verbal, or any other feckin' way that worked.

"You _unbelievable_ _CRETIN!_ I defended you against Harry! _DEFENDED_ you! I told my _best friend _that his buggering 'Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater' theory was a complete load of rubbish, giving the son of a scum-sucking _pig _the benefit of the doubt!"

"What in Salazar's name are you going on about? _You're _the one trying to do _me _in! You want to see pigs, Mudblood? You should've gone back to that Muggle sty of yours to wallow in the mud with Mummy the Muggle sow when you had the chance!"

As they taunted and snarked at one another, a spectacular spectrum of polychromatic jets flashed and whistled through the air, showering the pristine Hall with sparks and splinters alike. They ducked below tables, laid flat upon the quaking earth, and shot spells from underneath until the weeping wood that housed the fugitives creaked, groaned, and finally shattered under the heavy fire of mutual loathing.

In a noxious bang that reeked worse than a steaming pile of horse shite, one end of the Hufflepuff table completely melted off, dribbling down into an iridescent puddle of goo. A vast improvement, in Draco's opinion. Directly overhead, the chandeliers clinging to the ceiling for dear life lost their will to live and dived off, splashing shards into the drowning chaos below.

The whole place could go to pieces, for all he cared. He had a Mudblood to kill.

"What's the matter, Malfoy? Can't even handle one nasty little Mudblood? Daddy must be _so _proud! Hell's bells, if the rest of Voldemort's followers are as yellow and incompetent as you, I reckon all I'll have to do is smack the lot of them on their ferrety faces and they'll _all_ go scuttering off with their tails between their legs! You think you're some big, bad Death Eater? Why don't you eat _that, _you slimy sack of—"

"Is that the best you can do? How fitting, the Muggle-born proposing Muggle methods to vanquish the Dark Lord! Don't make me laugh! Why don't I show you how _real _wizards get the job done? Dodge _that, _you barking bitch! What the—_HONESTLY! _HOW DID THAT _MISS?_ JUST _DIE_, YOU FECKING MUDBLOOD!"

Granger merely flicked her wrist in response, and Draco barely had time to throw himself to the ground as the spell whizzed overhead, neatly shearing off a few of his hairs, and torched the entire Slytherin table behind him, reducing it into a charred, ashen skeleton of its former glory. In retaliation, he leapt to his feet and furiously summoned a drizzling rainstorm that stamped out the flames and indiscriminately pelted everything in its wake. With a disgruntled huff, Granger immediately switched tactics. She wasted no time in bolstering her defences, and by Salazar, he refused, absolutely REFUSED, to have his fine, pure-blooded arse handed to him by a Muggle-born.

As both combatants lunged in for the finishing blow, only at the last possible second did he finally realise his mistake.

Due to his _slightly _inordinate modifications to the _Aguamenti _Charm, he had just unwittingly slicked the way for both of them to slip and fall to the stone floor with a resounding _thwack. _Together, they winked out, like the last two lights in an empty world of darkness.

* * *

For what felt like the second time that blasted evening, Draco bolted upright, jerking into consciousness and shivering in a cold sweat. He shuddered with the intensity of the residual images branded into his lids, hastily rubbing them all away. On the verge of hysteria, his every muscle tensed, lying in wait for the slightest disturbance in the deceptive stillness. Only after verifying the green and silver adornments of his own dormitory did his heretic heart finally relinquish its battering of his insides.

"You alright there, mate?" Blaise Zabini, the quietest, yet most perceptive of his Housemates, had also sat up in bed, peering at him curiously from across the room.

"Yeah, just another bloody nightmare," Draco grumbled, and left it at that. In this House of snakes, he had few friends that he truly considered his equals, but he could hardly divulge the details to Blaise, of all people. Blaise rarely deigned to converse with anyone, but Draco knew that his mate's elitist views rivalled, if not exceeded, his own.

Thus, no one knew, and no would ever know… about the Mudblood that haunted his dreams.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Reverie & Reality

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READERS: Bex-chan, silverbluewords**

* * *

CHAPTER TWO: REVERIE & REALITY

* * *

_To die, to sleep—no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—to sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause._

—William Shakespeare, (_The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,_ 1604)

* * *

Draco left the Slytherin dungeons early that morning, heading straight for the Room of Requirement with both of his half-asleep, ungratefully disgruntled cronies in tow. Already stewing in the bitter aftertaste of all the shite he had dealt with in the last twenty-four hours, he responded to Goyle's inquiry about food with an icy glare that froze the gormless twit mid-yawn and shivered all notions of protest right out of him.

He had a plan, and by Salazar, he would see it through. The Dark Lord had chosen him for this. _Him,_ above all others, despite even his father's failure and his family's humiliating descent into the bottom rungs of the Death Eater hierarchy. And for that very reason, Draco had sworn to himself that nothing—_nothing_—would stop him from achieving his ultimate goal. He had too much at stake. Nearly everyone expected him to fail—he could see it in the downcast eyes of his own mother. But at this point, he no longer had the freedom or the luxury to question whether or not _if_ he could accomplish such a seemingly impossible task, only _when._

That nuttering old fool and his precious Pothead would never see it coming.

First off, he needed to gain access into the enchanted chamber. For the moment, he plunged into the murky depths of his mind, sifted out his destination, dragged it to the surface, and allowed all other thoughts to ripple away. As he paced back and forth three times in front of the bare strip of wall that hid the entrance to the Room of Requirement, he barked orders at Crabbe and Goyle to keep watch. In the future, he would need to brew them both a vat of Polyjuice Potion or transfigure them into canaries or something to avoid suspicion. Today, their perpetual states of cluelessness would have to do.

When the door finally revealed itself, he hastily stepped inside and grabbed the first reasonably heavy thing he saw—a set of scales—and stalked towards the nearest victim, thrusting it into Goyle's arms and commanding him to drop it the moment he saw anyone coming down the corridor. Knowing those two thickheads, the resulting clamour should serve as sufficient warning. It wouldn't do for that filthy Squib or any other meddling fink to go poking their noses about in his business. Then, without any other explanation, Draco promptly shut out his two baffled accomplices, the same way he had always shut out everything else.

There it stood—the broken Vanishing Cabinet that the infamous ginger doppelgängers had shoved Montague into a few years back. As soon as he had heard the news that Montague had turned up in a similar cabinet at Borgin & Burkes, he had realised almost immediately that the two artefacts formed a two-way passage into the castle. Armed with that sort of knowledge, he could easily bypass Hogwarts' allegedly impenetrable defences.

Clearly, no one else saw the implications of the incident, he suspected not even the great _DUMB_ledore himself, but one visit to St. Mungo's had given Draco all the information he needed to know. Who would've thought that Weasleys, of all people, had their uses? In an alternate universe, he might've gotten along with those conniving twins. Perhaps later, he would look into that mail-order service. He could use some of that Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder… Digressions aside, once he figured out how to repair the accursed contraption, every Death Eater in the Dark Lord's army would have a free pass into this pathetic excuse for a school. An ingenious plan, really.

He didn't rank second in his year for nothing. True, he'd endured his fair share of incensed displeasure from his father for scraping marks off the dust of a Mudblood, but why bother placing first in a shithole of a school that let filth like her in anyway? His parents should've sent him to Durmstrang, where they actually had _standards._

On second thought, those Bulgarian bleeders hardly fared any better. That wanking blood traitor, Krum—sullying his reputation with the likes of _her!_ Effing Mudblood didn't know her place! She and her infernal holier-than-thou attitude… No wonder she and the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Fecking-Die got along so swimmingly! People like them only saw the world in black and white—right and wrong, good and evil.

Not in his world. In a sense, he understood the true nature of the world better than anyone. Childhood and age had sapped all the colours away. No black. No white. Just grey. Grey in his eyes. Grey as far as his eyes could see. A cold and ruthless purgatory, left barren with lies and deceit, held down by the burden of questions that had no answers. Instead of answers, such questions merely presented him with a series of options, and forced him to choose one, and only one—not the right option, but the one option that seemed less wrong. Sometimes, he perceived "less wrong" as sacrificing what remained of his morality to live another day, rather than sacrificing what remained of his days to die for morality. Sometimes, he perceived "less wrong" as choosing the life of his family over the life of a stranger.

Thread by thread, he severed his ties with all extraneous human emotion, never permitting a single one to get close enough to control him. He had to control _them._ Horror, compassion, remorse… He shut them down—shut them _all_ down—in the name of self-preservation, and for the sake of his family.

In the end, he knew that he didn't really have a choice, but he had long since accepted that ugly truth as the defining point of his existence. He did what he had to do to survive. As for the world, it just kept on turning—blind to the struggles of a single, worthless individual upon its ruptured, grey mantle.

Now, only one question prevailed over his brooding—where to start? Almost two hours had passed since he had entered the room, and still no progress. He had gravely underestimated the magical device's formidable and infuriatingly stubborn resistance to his prodding. He cursed and scowled in frustration, pausing every now and then to glance anxiously at the doorway, to no avail. But honestly, what did he expect? He'd never fixed a sodding thing in his entire life. He only knew how to break…

Break…

Break…

Break things…

Break people…

Just break…

Into little pieces…

Pieces small enough to pass as nothing…

Pieces large enough to slice the skin…

If anyone tried…

To put them back together again…

All at once, a frenzied onslaught of nightmares engulfed him. The ruins of the Great Hall lay strewn upon the marred stone in bits and pieces—the world, as he knew it, torn down, ripped apart, and smashed into a shamble of splinters. And she just stood there, staring him down with her fierce eyes, her bushy hair in disarray, completely oblivious to the destruction she had caused. A symphony of raining glass, the screams of butchered trees, and the cackling glee of fireworks serenaded the apocalypse. Every bench, chair, and table that had once sat in its rightful place, every ornament and chandelier that had once hung from its designated niche in the architecture, every barricade he had tried to hide behind… obliterated. Yet she, and she alone, remained untouched by the all-consuming chaos littered at her feet.

Gritting his teeth in frustration and biting back an upsurge of bile, he smacked his head against the cabinet's wooden doors in a self-destructive attempt to exorcise the demonic visions from his mind.

Ever since that Mudblood had conjured up the gall to trespass upon his face with her soiled hand, he had sworn that the skin contact had contaminated him permanently. He knew, just _knew,_ that he had contracted some sort of malignant Muggle malady from the vile she-vermin that had burrowed its way into the recesses of his subconscious, latched on to the tender flesh with its cancerous hooks, hatching sacs of mucous-drenched spawn and eating him alive from the inside out.

Night after night… Day after day… He suffered. As he grew older, the nightmares grew with him. Lately, it seemed as if he had progressed from merely beating her in class or beating her up in-between classes to actually raping her. He would always remember that night—the night he had first branded the Dark Mark upon his skin. He had made a lot of decisions that day, some more wrong than others, but all of them right in the grey eyes of a boy that saw only a mother's tears, a father's disappointment, and fear… fear of the unknown, fear of the abyss, fear of the stranger in his own reflection. He did not dare hope for redemption, only fear for the alternative.

Following his harrowingly graphic, subconscious assault of Granger, he had immediately locked himself in the loo at Malfoy Manor and hurled the pale flood of acidic horror dry. Everything he had held in up until that point, brutally wrenched from the gaping, black hole that had ripped open inside of him and swallowed his very soul. He couldn't stomach the thought of what sickened him more—his own depraved, sadistic tendencies… or the Mudblood herself.

Her. Yes, _her._ No longer "it," but "her."

Only after nine straight nights of insomnia did he finally come to terms with the horrible truth: he had enjoyed it. He had enjoyed dominating her. And oddly enough, it had nothing to do with sexual gratification. The way that he had broken her, shattered her spirit and left it crumbled at his feet, where it _belonged,_ vindicated him with a visceral violence far greater than he even dared to imagine. For once in his life, he had control. For once in his life, he created his own options. For once in his life, he had the liberty to pass judgment without her disdainful mud-coloured eyes turning that same scrutinising gaze back upon him. He knew that in reality, he'd rather face castration than defile himself in such a despicable manner, but in his dreams, he escaped into a world entirely his own.

Admittedly, the conscious addition of a tormented Weasley as his captive audience had marginally sped up his recovery. In fact, up until the night before, he had always envisioned Granger in an out-of-character context, with her begging for mercy, her anguished screams drowned out by sobs of fright, and occasionally moaning like a little whore, nothing like the eerily realistic version his deranged mind had concocted last night—complete with terrifying attention to detail, a compulsory row, and all-out duelling. Dear Merlin, he'd gone around the twist.

Bugger this. He couldn't take it anymore.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. If he didn't proceed with necessary precautions, and _soon,_ that swotty Mudblood and the bleeding Vanishing Cabinet would drive him barmy before he even got halfway through the term.

To ensure that he remained emotionally stable enough to make it through the first day of class without doing anything that he would regret later, he stormed down to the hospital wing, fed that dithering nurse a load of tosh about N.E.W.T. anxieties, and managed to procure a heavily concentrated dose of Calming Draught, the entire quantity of which he then forced himself to gulp down over breakfast. By then, Crabbe and Goyle had long since scurried away, spurred on by the prospect of food and whiplash from Draco's abrupt and volatile mood swings.

Right on cue, Pansy sauntered into the Great Hall approximately fifteen minutes later, blubbering her apologies and squashing herself between him and Blaise to stake her claim upon Draco's right limb. The dark-skinned Italian, as composed and indifferent as ever, silently shifted down the bench to make room for Pansy's flapping. By then, the potion had successfully run its course, inebriating Draco up upon a teetering precipice of sanity that enabled him to smirk in a demented, detached sort of way at the absurdity of it all. From there, the rest of the day leisurely rolled downhill.

Under the influence of the potion, everything suddenly seemed so meaningless—all his worries so insignificant and misplaced. If some moron came running about and rankled him in the slightest, the draught would immediately send a surge of giddiness through his arteries that worked wonders on his blood pressure and skipped off, hand-in-hand with all impetuous notions, into the sunset.

That morning, in Ancient Runes, he had sniggered at the funny-looking pictures that Granger had translated out loud to the class, "reading" the little shapes and squiggles as if they formed actual words that _meant_ anything.

Then, when Snape had posed a question regarding nonverbal spells in Defence Against the Dark Arts, by far the best class of the day, he had sniggered again at Snape's snide dismissal of Granger's characteristic, verbatim response. Of course, that day's lesson had made it all too clear that, out of the entire feckless class, only he and Granger could actually cast the aforementioned nonverbal spells, but instead of dwelling upon this abomination of the natural laws of blood supremacy, he had placidly amused himself with Longbottom's half-witted blunders, Weasley's purple-faced degradation, and—the _real _icing on the cake—Potter landing himself in detention on the first day of class… _in_ his first class!

And the sniggers didn't end there. He'd sniggered some more in Arithmancy, namely at the sheer irony of Granger mapping out magical processes with numbers when she herself existed as some sort of deviant, statistical glitch.

Then, to his utter delight, he had found out in double Potions that afternoon that one of his best mates, Theodore Nott, had also progressed to N.E.W.T. level and could therefore join in the sniggering with him. When Slughorn had finally inquired about Granger's background after the third time that prig had sliced the air with her hand, he elbowed Nott with some racist crack he'd made up about Granger on the spot and they had both literally doubled over from the combined mirth of their own sniggers. _HA,_ the look on her face when Slughorn asked about her relation to Hector Dagworth-Granger! As if! That jumped-up Mudblood didn't have a drop of magic in her dirt-streaked veins! Not one drop—

And yet, not one drop of his guardian draught could've possibly prepared him for Slughorn's reaction.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Or his ears, for that matter. Instead of spurning her admission of her besmirched background, Slughorn had merely conveyed the utmost jubilance at the revelation. Draco had just stood there like some dozy sod, bewildered by the very suggestion that Slughorn, an alumnus of Salazar Slytherin's own House, considered a Muggle-born more worthy of praise than the sole heir to centuries of pure-blooded ancestry.

And to top it all off, she had turned around, blushed at Potter like a silly little nit, and giggled bashfully at his shameless compliments. Best in their year, his arse. Draco didn't even have to mention fecking, freckle-faced _Weasley_—the way he floundered about like some feeble fish, unnoticed in Potter's shadow, pining after that incognisant Mudblood with downright dickless, nauseating jealousy…

If not for the potion, Draco would have landed himself a lifetime sentence in Azkaban by now. Hell, maybe even two lifetimes. Somehow, even after losing a priceless vial of Felix Felicis to that bespectacled twunt, _again,_ he had managed to hold it together until he finally collapsed upon his bed with a weary groan. He longed for the day when the fates would grace _him_ with the smallest sip of that elusive liquid luck. Perhaps then, for the first time in his wretched life, he could've found a way to fix everything.

* * *

If only it had crossed his brilliant, but regrettably preoccupied mind to add Dreamless Sleep Potion to his farce of a prescription, maybe he wouldn't have found himself lying in the Great Hall again, thoroughly drenched and indecently sprawled in a puddle of what he sincerely hoped consisted solely of water. Groggily, he lurched to his feet, his robes squelching and clinging to his skin, weeping at the indignation of the situation. Groaning at the dull ache pervading his backside, he groped blindly for his wand as his hair dripped all over his face.

"Looking for something?" He stiffened involuntarily at the insinuations of the cold voice that hailed him, straining to suppress the hysterical outburst that threatened to erupt at any moment from his haplessly battered psyche.

She might as well have said, "Welcome to Hell!"

Striking back like a wounded snake, he hissed back, "Well, well, look at the Muggle-born, she's all grown up and finally getting her grimy hands on a _real_ magic wand! How does it feel, Mudblood? I'm shocked that you can even handle the excitement, what with your lack of _experience_ and all."

She gave a derisive laugh. "Yes, you'd know all about handling other wizard's wands, wouldn't you, Malfoy? I'm sure you're _quite_ the expert, but I can assure you that I have no problem whatsoever with handling _this_ one. After all, the wand chooses the wizard, and like the wizard, it is small, incompetent, and not quite _up_ to the task, if you get my drift."

Holy shite, the bitch had no qualms about pulling her own punches below the belt. She didn't even flinch! All at once, his entire body descended into a livid lockdown, his every fibre tensed and his jaw clenched in fury. Hissing, he swatted a blond, waterlogged clump out of the way and sank his fangs in with a taste of his own venom, "Oh, yeah? How long is your wand, Mudblood? Around twenty-seven centimetres, I take it? I should've known! It would only make sense that Granger the todger dodger's got the bigger wand!"

She scoffed. "Compared to you, Malfoy, _everyone's_ got a bigger wand."

With very little options left, he seriously considered giving Muggle brawling a go, but the last stubborn shreds of his Malfoy wit wrestled him away from his baser instincts. "When you're wriggling down in the dirt with whatever colony of insects hatched you, everything looks big," he sneered.

"Look, Malfoy," she snapped. "I really don't want to spend all night listening to your endless whinging. For the sake of both our sanities, I think it would be in our best interests to call a truce. As a gesture of goodwill, I'll even give you your stupid stick back—not that it would do you any good should you unwisely choose to recede upon our agreement."

"Bloody brilliant!" he thundered. "You'll just _give_ me my stick back! Why didn't _I_ think of that? Your prowess and generosity never ceases to astound me! And what, pray tell, would you hope to gain through this 'gesture of goodwill?'"

She rolled her eyes at his blatant sarcasm. "The way I see it, Malfoy, we're both stuck here for the time being, so why don't you just bunk down, shut it, and we both go our separate ways?"

"And then what?" he spat. "You expect me to just _trust _you? That we're suddenly going to get all matey—bonded by trauma and all that other shite! Bloody likely! Merlin, this isn't even real! It's not real! _None of it's real!_ YOU'RE NOT REAL!"

"Malfoy," she sighed, with the same condescending exasperation one would use to address a particularly petulant and puny child. "I'll tell you what's real, you daft git. If you couldn't trust me, you'd be lying facedown on the floor with your unmentionables hexed off and your wand up your rear, and we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

In the name of Salazar, _somebody_ wake him from this nightmare.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Words & Swords

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READERS: Bex-chan, silverbluewords**

* * *

CHAPTER THREE: WORDS & SWORDS

* * *

_It was unearthly, and the men were—no, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it—the suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity—like yours—the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you—you so remote from the night of first ages—could comprehend. And why not?_

—Joseph Conrad, (_Heart of Darkness,_ 1902)

* * *

"Right, here's how it works, Malfoy. I'm going to divide the place up using an Age Line, which just so happens to be the most appropriate solution for an infantile prick like you. So, until you _grow up,_ you stay on your half of the Hall, and I'll stay on my half," Granger prissily informed him, her clipped tone a clear indicator that he had no say in the matter. As he gritted his teeth and growled at the back of her bushy head, she carved a ghostly wisp straight through the centre of the Great Hall, presumably the aforementioned Age Line. Fat lot of good _that _would do. Did she honestly think that he wanted to go anywhere _near _her?

Once he had his wand back, he could easily use ranged magic to take her out from a distance. Maybe if he actually killed her in the dream world, it would purge her from his subconscious once and for all. But right now, she had the wand, and as much as it physically pained him to admit it, she had the power.

Only through frenzied repetition of a single, desperate mantra, over and over in his head, did he barely manage to reign in his temper: praise Salazar that a _Gryffindor_ had taken his wand. If a Gryffindor promised to give its greatest enemy his or her wand back, it most certainly would. He only needed to hold out a bit longer. And to think, these people actually wondered why they had so many near-death encounters.

Right on cue, she unceremoniously tossed his wand over the completed Line and he caught it as easily as he would've caught the Snitch without a certain scar-headed tool in the way.

"There, you've got your stupid stick back now, so you can quit crying and bugger off to the little girls' lavatory to dry your pompous fringe off," she harrumphed with ill-disguised disdain.

"You'll regret that, Mudblood," he promised darkly, siphoning water off of his soggy robes in the most dignified manner he could muster.

"Believe me, Malfoy, I already do," she sniffed, wrinkling her pert little nose down at him as if she had discovered some foul, insipid cockroach squashed upon the sole of her shoe.

She could feign indifference all she liked. With his trusty hawthorn back in the hands of a _real _wizard, the battle dynamics had finally shifted back in his favour. Once he had succeeded in wringing every last impudent drop of water into a weeping puddle at his feet, he hungrily stalked her movements for the slightest sign of weakness, the smallest opening, or the tiniest slip that would give him the advantage he needed to avenge his maimed pride.

"Typical Gryffindor," he drawled, twirling his wand with practised ease. "You great big pussies all think you're so brave. Has it ever occurred to you lot that 'brave' is just another word for 'pig-ignorant?'"

She raised her eyebrow in a silent dare. "I know what you're thinking, Malfoy, and I'm warning you, don't try it."

"Keep up the twat act and I just might," he coolly responded, refusing to rise to the bait. Not yet, at least.

She merely reared her wild mane back, braying in mockery, "You might what? _Kill me?_ That's rich! Look, Malfoy, you can lay it on as thick as treacle to your pathetic, dim-witted friends, but you can't lie to me. You always were bark and no bite, you miserable little ferret. You couldn't kill someone if your life depended on it."

Violent tremors rippled throughout his body, rattling the broken soul that shrunk back into its corner and cringed, imprisoned within—torn between outrage at her brazen claims and mortification at her heedless scrutiny of the darkest recesses of his heart. Or rather, the hollow cavern that now rotted in its place. "What would you know? You have no _fucking_ clue what I'm capable of," he snarled. "Every single fucking day, you hole up in the library with your fucking textbooks, and you think you fucking know everything. You _disgust _me. You think that shithole out there is covered in roses and swathed in sunshine? _Do you?_ Well, you're wrong. The real world is fucking cruel, and if you're still searching for it in some sodding _book,_ there's no place in it for the likes of you."

The crackling of her mud-crisped curls confirmed what her incessantly heroic composure concealed. Good. He _wanted_ her to get all riled up. It made her less pure and noble in his eyes, and more susceptible to the sins of wrath. In moments such as these, neither one of them stood above or beneath the other—both equally trapped in a bottomless pit of mutual hatred. Dream or not, he refused to let that monster cow him into going down without a fight.

By donning Granger's face, his inner demons had devised the perfect motivation for him to conquer all of his insecurities in a single night and finally rest easy. As soon as she broke the rigid silence, the shouting match would commence. He only had to wait for it. And sure enough, the bitch did not disappoint.

"You're so full of it, Malfoy, it's up to your eyes! And you wonder why everything looks like it's covered in mud—"

"So full of what? _Shite?_ Why don't you just say it to my face, Mudblood? Oh, that's right! You probably couldn't draw enough breath into your putrid lungs with that steel chastity belt strapped around your blooming white knickers—"

"—spoiled prat! Honestly, a few feathers ruffled out of place on your dense, yellow head, and you're squawking like it's the end of the world! Why don't you just stick your whole troubled, tragic hero tripe straight up your—"

"Oh, now _I'm_ the hero? Funny, I thought that was _your_ favourite position in that munting threesome you've got going on with Pothead and your ginger toyboy—"

"I've cottoned on to you, you bigoted cretin! You see this Hall? I tidied the place up after your little fanny fit last night—"

"—can't say I see why you even bothered, Mudblood, when you've already contaminated the entire vicinity with your filth—"

"In case you haven't noticed, Malfoy, I put _everything_ back the way it was, which means Daddy must not have had enough time to teach you Dark Magic before he got himself landed in the nick—"

"Spare me your rote-memorised ratshit, Mudblood! You're so deep in all that purity cack, you wouldn't recognise Dark Magic if it scarpered right up to you and yanked your conk out of one of your precious textbooks—"

"—always the same old rubbish with you! Mudblood this, Mudblood that—you'd think it'd have lost its effectiveness after the first five hundred times—"

"I'm just stating the facts, Mudblood, and we all know how fond you are of facts—"

"Fair enough, inbreed. Perhaps suggesting a bit more creativity on your part was too much to ask—"

"Who's calling who names now? Way to take the higher road, Mudblood—"

"I'm just stating your lineage, inbreed, and we all know how fond you are of lineage—"

"A Mudblood can only dream—"

"—it must run in the family, what with the same traits being passed on from one cousin to another, generation after generation! Wouldn't want to end up like your dear old mum now, would I? She has such horrid taste, I fancy she could even make that hideous necklace at Borgin & Burkes look tolerable by comparison—"

"How would a Mudblood like you even make it through the front door? I'm shocked that no one thought to wipe you off the pavement along the way—"

"Oh, it was easy, Malfoy. I just did what you do—throw names around and pretend to be more important than I really am—"

"Bloody likely! Who would _you_ know that would get you into a decent shop like that?"

"Apparently, you're such a man-hussy that no one thought to question me. You and Parkinson were literally made for each other—"

"Am I hearing this right? You got into Borgin & Burkes by claiming to be one of _my_ slags? Oh, this is too good! You _wish_ you could be my slag, but I don't do ugly Mudbloods like you—"

"I'd take brains over looks any day, Malfoy. At least then I could find a way to compensate for any other deficiencies. You, on the other hand—I'm afraid that not all the magic in the world could fix you or your pug-faced bird—"

"Fixing your looks, eh? Like I fixed your teeth for you in third year? At least now you don't look like some overgrown, buck-toothed beaver—"

"Seeing as how I fixed your face for you in third year, I'd say we're even. At least now you really do have a face like a smacked arse—"

On and on it went. At the very least, he reckoned that two or three hours had passed, and _still,_ neither one of them had given any indication as to backing down. Somehow, in the midst of all the spitting and sneering, they had both advanced dangerously close to the quivering Age Line that feebly served as the only, ethereal mediator in their hissy row, their hackles raised and their teeth bared, practically screaming in each other's faces.

"GO TO HELL, _MUDBLOOD!"_

"GO TO AZKABAN, _INBREED,_ AND GIVE MY REGARDS TO DADDY WHILE YOU'RE THERE!"

"HA! _Azkaban?_ The dementors work for _us!_ Being sent to Azkaban will be like an extended holiday compared to what they'll do to Mudbloods like you—"

"All for the best, I suppose! If a dementor tried to suck your soul out, it would probably starve to death—"

"You think you're so brilliant? If I recall correctly, _you_ were the one that almost got Potter caught in that Umbridge fiasco by calling a meeting in the Hog's Head of all places—"

"If I recall correctly, it was _because_ of me that it took you lot so ridiculously long to find us! All it took was one little Protean Charm on a bunch of fake Galleons and we could transmit entire messages right under all of your pongy noses—"

"—filthy pub must remind you of home! It's no bloody wonder you can stand to get so cosy with Weaselbee! I'd never set foot in that manky shack—"

"Well, we could hardly stage a large-scale resistance meeting in the Three Broomsticks, you thick git—"

"I reckon the _real _reason why you didn't pick the Three Broomsticks was because you couldn't stand the thought of Weasley ogling that bint of a barmaid instead of you! Hurts, doesn't it, Mudblood? Crying yourself to sleep every night, wishing you could be a _real _witch—"

"I'd sooner turn my wand on myself and suffer a thousand Unforgivable Curses than stoop to anything _you_ consider worthy—"

"Ah, yes, how could I have forgotten the hackneyed martyrdom of the so-called Golden Trio, where between the half-breed orphan that was raised by Muggles and the blood traitor who licks the dirt off their feet, it's the _Mudblood_ that's the brains of the operation?"

"And who's the brains of_ your_ operation? _Your_ so-called blood supremacy? Oh, that's right! A 'half-breed orphan that was raised by Muggles,' as you so eloquently put it! You lot are nothing but a bunch of raving hypocrites—"

"Who fed you that load of shite? Pothead? How bloody predictable! Fecking Dumbledore's Army! What a wheezing joke! Why don't you just call it what it is—Potter's Army? Pathetic, really, how you and his fawning throngs of blithering morons worship the ground he walks on—"

"Coming from the little purebred whelp that drools at his master's feet, nuzzles the rumps of loathsome toads like Umbridge, and rolls over for the occasional doggy treat, that's not saying much—"

Right as he readied himself to deliver another scathing retort, a sudden burst of inspiration glassed over his vision and drowned out the rest of her rabbiting tirade. Brief flashes of his throat-ripping snarkfest with Granger flickered across the void of his mind, illuminated like insignificant little stars that seemed just out of reach, but when connected in a series, formed a much bigger constellation that glowed with the wondrous lustre of discovery.

_Girls' lavatory… wouldn't recognise Dark Magic if it scarpered right up to you… hideous necklace at Borgin & Burkes… one little Protean Charm on a bunch of fake Galleons… transmit entire messages right under all of your pongy noses… bint of a barmaid… a thousand Unforgivable Curses… the occasional doggy treat…_

"Granger," he interrupted quite suddenly, so overcome by demented glee that he blurted out her surname without remembering to call her "Mudblood" first. "You're brilliant."

She had gone completely still. Draco Malfoy had finally rendered the ever-clever Hermione Granger speechless, but he hardly noticed. His eyes had gone unfocused as he descended into a state of devious euphoria. Sweet Salazar, if he could pull this off, it would solve everything!

He could complete his obligation to the Dark Lord without sullying his own hands. His family would regain their status, the Dark Lord would get what he wanted, and best of all, not even the great Saint Potter himself could possibly connect the crime back to him. His father would see the light outside his cell, and his mother would no longer shed burning drops of frailty behind closed doors. The Death Eaters would hail him as a hero, and maybe then…

Maybe then, his father would finally reward him with the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod of praise he had secretly longed for, so desperately, throughout his entire, wretched life.

"Malfoy?" she addressed him cautiously, her eyebrows twin flags of rising concern. "Did you just—I mean, are you… feeling alright?"

"Fucking BRILLIANT!" he cackled, bursting into a spontaneous fit of maniacal laughter that startled Granger out of her wits.

"Dear Merlin," she mumbled, glancing anxiously about the Hall for aid that would forever remain invisible, clearly unnerved by the displays of hysteria.

_"That's_ why you're here!" he bellowed unexpectedly, storming towards her and practically scraping his nose against the translucent barrier, causing Granger to flinch away in revulsion. "To help me!"

"I sincerely apologise for the confusion," she prudently offered. "But I'm not a Mediwitch—"

"Shut up, Mudblood," he snapped, apparently recovered from his momentary lapse in sanity. "Bloody hell, why am I even speaking to you? You're not even fucking REAL! You're just some mangy projection of my subconscious that was tossed into this bleeding hellhole as target practice for my frustrations, not to mention some deranged excuse for a muse—"

Unfortunately, Granger didn't get to hear the rest of his insightful theories about her disturbing recurrences, for he had accidentally crossed the Line in his zeal—immediately receiving a vicious blast to the face that knocked him back into consciousness.

* * *

Not only had he finally come up with a plan, but he had also managed to discern the true purpose behind Granger's nightly manifestations. For today, at least, his newfound sense of accomplishment saved him from rushing down to the hospital wing and extorting more Calming Draught from that fussy nurse.

Once again, Draco rose at the crack of dawn, frantically marked the next Hogsmeade visit on his calendar, snatched up his schoolbag, and bounded out the dungeons into the last place anyone would think to look for him.

He went to the library.

Naturally, he didn't expect to see anyone there at this ungodly hour—not even the infamous Gryffindor bookworm. Yet there she sat, needlessly swotting up one subject or another in her perpetual post by the shelves near the back, her mud-tainted eyes feverishly scanning the material into her oversized brain. As she scribbled furiously onto a fresh roll of pristinely pressed parchment, her bushy hair grew visibly bushier and bushier with mounting frustration. She looked as if she hadn't slept that well either.

Wrinkling his nose with distaste, he strode right past and perused the painstakingly organised shelf behind her for the tomes he needed. Under the hawkish scrutiny of that overbearing hag of a librarian, he casually rifled through a few books on advanced Charms and drifted off to another shelf to browse for Potion recipes, namely Calming Draught, _just_ in case, and Dreamless Sleep Potion.

Those dreams—he had them for a reason. And at long last, he finally felt as if he understood why. Perhaps providence pitied him after all. However, it didn't change the fact that the Granger-masked she-devil terrorising his nightmares persisted in prowling through the depths of sleeping darkness. He'd rather not endure her screeching for another second.

Very well, he'd probably end up using all of _her_ ideas, but still, even he had to admit that this little plan of his sounded rather desperate. Now that he had come down from his dream-induced high and actually stopped to think about it, the more the odds of his success dwindled before his eyes.

But at this point, he really didn't have anything to lose by trying. Surely it couldn't get much worse than pulling his hair out over the blasted Vanishing Cabinet and the frightening prospect of facing his formidable target head-on.

For the remainder of his time in the library, breathing the same polluted air as a Mudblood, he stoically jotted down notes and daydreamed about swaggering up to the real Granger right then and there, hexing her off the face of the planet, and thus cleansing the natural world of the mired speck she left upon its bloated, littered surface. That straitlaced bint had her nose so buried in musty, dead tree slices, she wouldn't even notice. No, she wouldn't even notice…

And she would never know…

She would never see him…

Watching from the shadows…

Standing right in front of her…

All this time…

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Crime & Punishment

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READERS: Bex-chan, silverbluewords**

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR: CRIME & PUNISHMENT

* * *

_There isn't anyone to help you. Only me. And I'm the Beast… Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill! …You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you? Close, close, close! I'm the reason why it's no go? Why things are the way they are?_

—William Golding, (_Lord of the Flies,_ 1954)

* * *

Draco had never really given any thought as to the true nature of death. Death… Death… Such an ambiguous concept. In his mind, he had somehow always visualised death as yet another form of Disapparition—a sharp crack, followed by a vanishing of some sort or another. When people died, they would simply disappear, claimed by some manner of nothingness that awaited them on the other side, and had nothing to do with him. Compared to the lives of his parents, their lives easily shrank into insignificance. Family came first. No one else mattered. Not Potter. Not Weasley. Not Granger. Not Dumbledore. Not even Katie Bell—a Gryffindor upperclassman he had never spoken to in his life.

And yet, he could not escape this incomprehensible, sickening feeling pervading within. It made him physically ill and his soul scream as if tearing apart into ragged strips of coarse, brittle wretchedness. He didn't even know her. So why did it matter? Why did it matter _so much?_ Why did it matter that he had almost killed her? That he had almost taken her life as carelessly as the Dark Lord would've taken his parents'? That he had almost snuffed out her existence like a weeping candle—a nameless sacrifice burning upon an altar of infernal salvation?

Everything had gone according to plan. He had perfected the Protean Charm upon a pair of fake Galleons, fed Snape a load of half-baked bollocks about needing to replenish potion supplies, thus wheedling his Head of House into granting him permission to take an emergency trip down to the village, and magically enslaved the barmaid of the Three Broomsticks through use of the Imperius Curse. He had picked up the package containing the cursed necklace he had ordered from Borgin & Burkes at the Hogsmeade Post Office and handed both the package and one of the Charmed Galleons to the barmaid, instructing her to give the package to the first girl that ventured into the lavatory alone on the day of the first school-wide trip, force her to deliver it to Dumbledore through any means necessary, and use the Galleon to alert him once she had completed the task. Yes, _everything_ had gone according to plan.

And best of all, he hadn't dreamed about Granger in over a month—not since he'd begun consuming Dreamless Sleep Potion on a regular basis. The days crawled past as he distracted himself with vain attempts to focus on other tasks, namely Quidditch practice, preparing to take Potter down in the opening match, prefect duties, fighting a losing battle against the sodding Vanishing Cabinet, evading female Slytherins, keeping his reputation afloat with male Slytherins, keeping Snape out of his head, writing his mother succinct formalities of false cheer in painstaking calligraphy, worrying about his father, and ploughing his way through a neglected, never-ending stack of schoolwork. As a result, he hardly slept. He hardly ate. He hardly paid attention during class, and had to sacrifice even more hours of sleep revising his sloppy, absentminded notes.

Thus, on the day that everything changed, he had landed himself in detention with McGonagall for failing to turn in his Transfiguration homework twice in a row. He remembered the rush of oblivious glee that had warmed the golden coin, safely tucked away in the pocket of his robes, even as his hand continued scratching out sentences for the old bag seated imperiously before him. As usual, he hid his true emotions behind an impassive mask as he scribbled out the extended, remedial essay she had assigned him. He recalled the ignorant smirk splattered across the back of his mind as he mused on having the perfect alibi should his brilliant plan go awry, completely unaware that it already had.

That night, he had no need to take the potion, for no potion in the world could take away the living nightmares that plagued him. Lying upon his bed, wide-awake and dead to the world, he had tormented himself with the same vision, over and over, in the same vicious cycle. He saw himself, trudging through an onslaught of sleet and howling wind on his way out of Hogsmeade, just another memory of one of his countless weekend trips. But this time, he heard screams. Even standing out on the far edge of the village, the terrifying shrieks deafened and pierced him, and the world seemed to screech to a reverberating halt. All around him, the snow continued to fall, frozen tears of numb, white horror and the coldness of death. Not just death, but the coldness of an eternal winter, burying all traces of the once-green life that would forever lie crusted and smothered beneath.

And he did nothing. Absolutely nothing. He had simply turned, and walked away. Like a coward, he walked away, afraid of the consequences. Afraid of taking responsibility for his grave misjudgement. Afraid of what he would see. Afraid of Granger, because he could always find some way to fool Potter and the rest of his lackeys, but not Granger. Granger would bore into him with those mud-strewn eyes, and she would know. She would peer into the darkness, and she would see everything. A failure. A cold, heartless bastard. A lost soul. A child who gambled thoughtlessly with other people's lives, because he didn't understand what living really meant.

Now, he found himself gazing out through the unbarred windows of the Owlery, blind to the world and lost in a dazed and conflicted stupor. His eagle owl perched faithfully upon his shoulder, its proud plumage ruffled slightly by the perpetual draft in this part of the castle, which Draco hardly registered in his current state of desensitisation.

Earlier that morning, as he'd passed the Gryffindor table on his way to breakfast, he'd heard the news that Bell's condition had declined so rapidly, Dumbledore had issued her immediate transfer to St. Mungo's. Honestly, he couldn't recall the exact details of that particular moment in time, or how it had affected him. Everything had become somewhat of a blur. He didn't know what to do anymore. He didn't know what to think, or how he should feel. He just… didn't know anymore.

What should he do now? Visit Bell at the hospital? Apologise? Confess to his crimes? Turn his back on her and act as if nothing ever happened? Blame it on her and her own stupidity for wearing gloves with feckin' holes in them? No, he couldn't do any of those things. On one end, he risked his life and that of his parents. On the other, he risked his soul and his sanity. That left only one option—the one option that felt more right than wrong in this bleak and hopeless clusterfuck he had buried himself in.

Dismissing his owl with yet another flawlessly scrawled letter of appeasement to his mother, he pointed his wand at the ground and screwed his eyes shut in concentration. He had never attempted this spell before, for he'd never had a reason to. But now, things had changed.

_"Orchideous,"_ he whispered, waving his wand in a circular motion. Immediately, a sprig of greenery rose up from the ground and burst into a vibrant rainbow of flowers. The moment he released a shaky breath that he hadn't realised he'd withheld, the flowers aged rapidly in front of his eyes, drying up into shrunken, soot-stained skeletons and finally collapsing into an ashen heap upon the dull, dropping-littered straw. He swallowed back his repulsion and the stinging disappointment that wrenched his insides.

He tried again, this time enunciating more clearly and forcefully, _"Orchideous!"_ Once again, he watched with trepidation as the blooms re-enacted a scene of painted life and bleached death. _"Orchideous,_ blast it! _ORCHIDEOUS!"_ he shouted in hoarse desperation. His vision flickered wildly with flashes of grey. He heard every rasp, every shower of despair, collapsing upon a prickling, straw casket. The stench of decay pervaded the air, and he choked upon the bitter, ashy taste of defeat. Failure... Failure... Failure... A sensory overload of failure. "FUCK! FUCK! _FUCK!_ WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING WRONG?" he screamed at the faceless expanse. _"TELL ME!"_

"Malfoy?" came a squeak of surprise from the doorway.

_No! NO! Not her! NOT HER! Anyone but her!_ Even as the words raced through his head, scattering all other thoughts aside in a shuddering surge of panic, he willed himself to turn around and confront the intrusion.

"I thought I heard shouting. Is everything alright?" Granger asked, concern etched into the sediment of her eyes and settling upon the carnage blossoming at his feet.

He felt so exposed, as if the world had stripped him of everything and left him to crawl and fend for himself in this barren state of worthlessness. He couldn't—_wouldn't_—give her the satisfaction of seeing him like this. "What the _fuck_ are you looking at, Mudblood?" he snarled, his walls slamming down between them.

She blinked in bewilderment, then scrunched her nose up, strode right past him, and curtly replied, "Right now, I'm looking at which owl I'm going to use to send my letter, which is what _normal_ people do in the Owlery."

"Sending a letter, eh? To your filthy Muggle parents, I presume?" he sneered.

"To _both_ of my parents, in fact," she coolly responded. "They're not in prison, you see, so I find corresponding by owl post _most _convenient."

"Making the most out of the time you have left, I'd wager," he hissed.

"One can only hope you're making the most out of yours," she answered, her eyes drifting back down to the floral chaos decorating the floor.

He hated the pity he saw in her eyes—absolutely despised her for it. Her bloody chivalry complex drove him mad. She infuriated him with such intensity that he could seriously kill her. In fact, nothing would stop him from blasting her straight out that window. Nothing—except for himself. And he realised at that very moment that he could never do it. Because if he did, she would die. She would _die._ Disappear. Vanish. Not from his dreams, but from his _life._ Her eyes, bright like the petals of a freshly cut flower, would drain of all colour, and she would fall—reclaimed by the soil, and forever lost to the mortal world. Just like what he'd almost done to Katie Bell.

"PISS OFF, _MUDBLOOD!_ IT'S NONE OF YOUR _FUCKING_ BUSINESS!" he bellowed, whipping the other way and refusing to look her any further in the eye. Gritting his teeth, he fought to suppress the savage, indescribable tremors besieging him from all sides. Mindlessly slashing a circle through the air, he barely managed to distract himself from the screaming riot thundering through his head.

This time, only one flower emerged, draped with sunshine—a jarring contrast to the tension within the room.

After a few moments of silence, Granger left, without even dignifying him with a response.

And once she left, the sunshine-yellow petals bled blue, grew sickened, and shrivelled into ash.

* * *

That night, when he awoke to find himself sprawled, once again, on the floor of the Great Hall, he almost laughed out loud with morbid relief. He struggled into a sitting position, his muscles heavy and smarting with twinges of protest, as if he hadn't used them in years. Blinking several times in rapid succession to clear his vision, he noticed that Granger, or, more accurately, the subconscious version of her, had apparently decided to dispel the Age Line in his absence.

Glancing to his right, he almost jumped at the sight of her sitting quietly beside him, her face fraught with concern, which immediately faded away into indifference.

"Oh, you're finally awake," she observed, her tone sprinkled with a hint of sarcasm.

"No shit," he snapped, cringing at the rasp that wheezed from his parched lips, making him sound more weary than menacing.

She rolled her eyes, but otherwise said nothing. As he took advantage of the sparse silence to fully take in his surroundings, he vaguely wondered how she knew exactly where to sit. She sat close enough to establish her presence, but far enough away to avoid infecting his personal space. She knew exactly where to position herself, as if she knew him better than he did. Looking down at his hands, he also saw that she had stayed true to her word and had not taken his wand again.

Right then, an odd ache gripped his chest, and he didn't know whether to feel disgusted or moved by her compassion. There she sat, worried for him, a right bastard who couldn't have cared less about _her_ life, and even honouring a promise she'd made to him almost a month ago, despite him gallivanting about with the sort of people her lot considered scum.

At times like these, he almost forgot the fact that the Granger sitting next to him—yes, _here,_ with _him,_ at this very moment—didn't really exist. And yet, she mimicked the real Granger's actions so perfectly, and so _bloody_ predictably, he could hardly tell the difference.

For a while, neither of them spared the other a second glance. Then, as usual, Granger broke the silence, still not looking at him. "Harry thinks you did it, you know."

He stiffened, whether out of apprehension or indignation, he knew not. "Did _what?"_ he growled, daring her to voice her accusations out loud. He should've known. Pothead might've heard a thing or two while spying on him in the train, but that tosser didn't have a shred of evidence. _Not a single, bleeding shred._

"You know what I'm talking about," she replied, absentmindedly fingering the edges of her robes.

Anger—such a strange emotion. It came so easily to him, much easier than angst or anxiety, and sometimes, he wondered if it really counted as a standalone emotion. It served more as a by-product of several other internal conflicts, because instead of dealing with them all individually, it simply threw the entire heap into a cauldron of chaos and stirred and stirred, until it all just boiled and spilled over the edge. And in the end, everything tasted so foul that no one could decipher any of the original ingredients.

But it didn't matter. It didn't matter what she or anyone else thought of him. It _shouldn't _matter. "And I suppose that you, as a faithful member of his feckless fan club, believe so too?" he spat.

"Actually, I don't," she admitted, startling him. "Or, at the very least, I would like not to," she added quietly.

He couldn't help it. He openly gaped at her. Hermione Granger couldn't lie to save her life. Her honesty and purity made it too difficult for her to conceal her true notions. And she thought him _innocent?_ Against the word of the Chosen One? Her _best friend? _Un-fecking-believable! That odd ache inside him began to swell, and he suddenly found himself incensed by her naivety.

"What if I did, _Mudblood?"_ he snarled, even as he cringed within, once more taking the easy way out—the path of anger. "It's not like that would shock you! Are you _fucking_ STUPID? It's me, you _disgusting_ Mudblood! ME! Draco Malfoy, the evil _git!_ It doesn't even fucking _matter _whether that bint lives or dies! It wouldn't change a fucking thing! It's not like you lot would _ever _see me as ANYTHING else!"

He wanted to burn the pity from her eyes, sear it off with blistering hatred. Normal people would detest him as much as he detested them. They would've glowered down upon him with all the loathing and revulsion that he rightfully deserved, not pity. _Anything _but pity. Because pity told him that she knew. That she saw right through him. And she didn't hate him for it. And for that, he hated _her._

"I FAILED ANYWAY! THAT STUPID BITCH IS LUCKY TO BE ALIVE! DO YOU _FUCKING_ HEAR ME? _LUCKY!_ I COULD'VE—_I could've_—_shite_—" his voice cracked, and he didn't know how much more pathetic he could get. He clamped his jaw shut and determinedly glared away from the shameful reflection he knew he would see staring back at him in her eyes. He shook from the effort it took to hold himself together, tightly grasping his knees and burying his face in the dark sanctuary it created, afraid he would fall apart at any second and simply scatter away.

Like ashes… Ashes… Nothing more than a handful of ashes.

"You're a right foul git, Malfoy," she deadpanned, and safely hidden within his arms, he allowed himself to flinch at her words. Of all people, he wouldn't blame her for taking advantage of his decrepit state. He would've done the same.

"But that doesn't mean you're evil," she softly finished instead.

Her kindness twisted his insides and plagued something deep inside him with complete and utter anguish. "Will you just go the fuck _away?"_ he yelled. "I really don't want to hear any of your cock-sucking, Gryffindor _bullshit_ right now! Everyone's evil, you _fuckwitted_ Mudblood! _EVERYONE!" Everyone! EVERYONE! Everyone except YOU,_ he screamed in his head. He winced internally as the harrowing pain intensified. "Some blighters are just better at hiding it than others! I would've thought that _you,_ of all people, would have caught on by now!"

"Then why are you here, Malfoy?" she demanded. "You shut me out for almost a month! Honestly, Malfoy, if you already know everything, then why didn't _you_ just stay away? Why did _you _come back?"

He honestly didn't know how to answer that question. Deep down, maybe he already did, but he would never tell her. Why, she asked? Because he needed her. He _needed_ to hear her scream at him—to hear her yell at him and chastise him for his carelessness, his stupidity, his thoughtlessness. He needed to hear her call him a cowardly bastard, a despicable human being, and a weak, foolish child, in way over his head, because he didn't have the courage to say any of those things out loud for himself. Because if he said something out loud, he didn't own it anymore. It became the property of a cruel and unforgiving world, and he could never it back. And somewhere in the remains of his crooked soul, he knew that he deserved it—all of it.

"Go ahead, then," he bade despondently. "Scream at me all you want! Tell me what a bloody idiot I am! Call me a spineless snake! A worthless piece of shite! Tell me how much you hate me! Fuck, just give the whole fan-fucking-tastic, Gryffindor royal treatment!"

"You're not evil, Malfoy," she repeated. "You're just human."

"Human?" he scowled. "What does _that _even mean? It's not like _you_ would know, you sodding Mudblood."

At that very moment, he finally admitted in his head that he thought Granger a much better person than himself. She didn't rise to the bait, refusing to give him the fight he desperately longed to start. She knew, and _he_ knew, that engaging in another row right then wouldn't solve anything, and it certainly wouldn't make him feel any better in the end. She merely studied him with an indecipherable expression. Finally, she stated, "Someday, I hope _you_ will."

"You _hope?"_ he scoffed. "There's no bloody such _thing _as hope! Don't waste your fucking time, Mudblood! If Pothead doesn't reveal his almighty superpowers soon, you'll hardly have any of it left."

"That is _it!" _she shrieked, abruptly leaping to her feet and brandishing her wand at him. He drew back a bit, honest-to-Salazar stunned. "Get up, Malfoy!" she commanded. "I have just about _had_ it with you!"

"What the fuck—?" he spluttered, before plastering the trademark sneer back over his patrician features. "How _dare_ you speak to me, you filthy little Mudblood—"

"Look, Malfoy, you can either mope around, feeling sorry for yourself like some pathetic sod, or you can get your slimy bum off the ground and blinking _do_ something about it!" she screeched.

"LIKE _WHAT?"_ he yelled back. "Got any more brilliant ideas nestled away in that bushy head of yours?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," she smirked. _Smirked._ Granger actually _smirked._ "Come with me, you impossible child," she ordered, briskly striding over to the nearest House table and indicating for him to follow. His eyes darted warily around the Hall, weighing his options. For now, he would humour his subconscious, but still… He made sure to keep a firm grip on his wand—_just _in case.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Sparks & Stars

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READERS: Bex-chan, silverbluewords**

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE: SPARKS & STARS

* * *

_I could be well moved if I were as you. If I could pray to move, prayers would move me. But I am constant as the Northern Star, of whose true fixed and resting quality there is no fellow in the firmament. The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks; they are all fire, and every one doth shine; but there's but one in all doth hold his place._

—William Shakespeare, (_The Tragedy of Julius Caesar,_ 1623)

* * *

"AH! _MALFOY!"_

"FUCK! I swear to Salazar, we're doing this wrong… Hell, this _is_ wrong…"

"NO, don't _stop,_ _YOU IDIOT!_ HARDER!"

"SHUT IT, woman! I'm trying!"

"Well, you need to try _harder!_ AH! _MORE,_ MALFOY, MORE! _HARDER!"_

_"Harder?_ You want it HARDER? Bloody easy for you to say! I'm sweating cobs down here, no thanks to you! _OI,_ quit grabbing me! Don't make this any feckin' _harder_ than it already is! FUCK! _Stay still!_ Shite, HOLD IT! Let me give it another go!"

"Merlin, you're not ready for this! _I'm_ not ready for this! Godric, what was I thinking? We should've waited! We should've WAITED! Why didn't we WAIT?"

"What in the blazes would be the point in _that?_ Merlin, I thought you were supposed to be the clever one—"

"Well, first off, we could've chosen a more suitable location!"

"Where the fuck would be a more suitable location? Say, you're a right peevish swot—would you rather go at it in the library?"

"Godric, why didn't I think of that before? GAH, it's too late now!"

"Indeed! This was all _your _brilliant idea! You _insisted_ that the Great Hall had perfectly stable, flat surfaces that would do nicely—"

"Yes, I _know,_ alright? What did you expect? Everyone's got to start _somewhere,_ and you're not exactly the most patient bloke around! You're nowhere _near _ready for—for… more _rugged_ territory! Godric, you're like a blundering Neanderthal, the way you brandish that thing about like some thick troll's club! Honestly, with the way you go on about yourself, I thought you would've at least _tried _this once or twice—"

"A bloody _what?"_

"A NEANDERTHAL, Malfoy! An underdeveloped human, driven solely by primitive instinct and incapable of rational thought—"

"Sounds an awful lot like you, Mudblood—"

"Really, Malfoy? REALLY? You're _really_ going to call me that at a time like this? Once again, you fail to astonish me—"

"I'll call you anything I _bloody_ want to, you filthy _Mudblood!_ I don't owe you SHITE! You were the one who practically forced me into this!"

"I hardly call taking pity on you an act of force, inbreed, although I can scarcely imagine the trauma that Mummy surely must have inflicted upon you—"

"Trade places with me, then, if you're so bloody brilliant! Go on! I'll just lie back and enjoy the show, shall I? After all, I _am_ an unwilling participant—"

_"An unwilling participant?_ FINE! Stop it! Stop _moving! _Hold still, you useless lump of a wizard! 'Filthy Mudblood,' my hat! You don't even know the half of it, you arrogant swine—"

"What the fuck are you—BLOODY _HELL!_ WHERE THE _FUCK _DID YOU LEARN HOW TO DO _THAT?"_

"Do I detect a tone of surprise, Malfoy? Well, don't mind me! This nasty Mudblood is _through!_ That's right! _Through!_ You and your defective wand can take your frustrations elsewhere!"

"BOLLOCKS! Do you honestly expect me to believe that now _you're_ the resident expert on wandlore? What a load—"

"Who _needs_ to be an expert, when any Tom, Dick, and Harry knows that the wand's only as good as the wizard?"

_"OI,_ WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING? WE'RE NOT BLOODY FINISHED HERE! AND THERE IS _NOTHING _WRONG WITH MY FUCKING WAND, MUDBLOOD! _NOTHING!_ HEY, MUD—oh, _sod it! _I'm practically _dripping_ in mud by now—_GRANGER, GET BACK HERE!"_

"Honestly, Malfoy, was it _that _difficult to sound out two titchy syllables?"

"You're not exactly making things easier for me when you're screaming 'OH,_ GOD! _MALFOY!' every two ticks—OH, _GOD!_ GRANGER! That was feckin' _mind-blowing!_ TEACH ME!"

"Merlin, I can't believe we're actually doing this… I can't believe _I'm_ doing this… With _you,_ of all people… Godric, you don't even know what you're doing… AH! I can't do this anymore! I just _can't!_ This has got to be the _worst_—"

"Do you _ever_ stop TALKING? For once in your _blasted_ life, will you just shut up and quit analysing? Salazar almighty, this has got to be the wonkiest dream I've ever had… And I _really_ don't want to think about the consequences right now… WAIT! _Wait!_ Stop! I think I've gotten the hang of this! Granger, stay right there!"

"GAH, what is it _now,_ you gormless _git_—wait, Malfoy, what are you—_NO,_ GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME, YOU SICK—MALFOY, STOP! _STOP!_ I've never—there's no way—_AH, MALFOY!_ YOU'VE GOT IT ALL WRONG! _Faster, you idiot! FASTER!"_

"FUCKING HELL, GRANGER! LIKE _THIS?"_

"YES, MALFOY, _YES! OH, YES!_ GODRIC, _FINALLY!"_

_"FUCK,_ I'M SO CLOSE—"

—but yet so far. His conjured roses wilted after lasting almost ten minutes in the glory of pristine perfection. Granger groaned in exasperation once again, and even he couldn't help the sinking cloud of disappointment that descended upon him.

BUGGERING HELL! He'd thought, for dead certain, that he'd finally gotten it right this time. But then again, Granger didn't exactly win any awards for her renowned teaching methods. He swore that if the same situation had unfolded itself in reality, he would've gone deaf by now from all of her screeching. She screamed at him for every single, blasted little detail, from his wand-waving technique to his pronunciation of the incantation, for swishing too slow or too fast, for stressing that syllable too much or that one too little, for his posture, for the angle he held his wand at—Merlin, she infuriated him to the very brink of insanity!

Honestly, they spent more time bickering than actually attempting the spell, but he had to admit that he fared slightly better under her guidance. Besides, she didn't really exist anyway, so he wouldn't die of infection from the close proximity, societal shame, or anything horrid like that. He desperately needed this chance to practise. Better Granger than any other toffee-nosed fruitcake.

Once he figured out how to perform this pissing spell in the dream world, he had no doubt that he could pull it off in real life. But for some pesky reason, his flowers never seemed to look right.

Throughout their improvised mini-lesson, Granger had deftly transfigured the debris he'd littered across the floor, sprouting sunflowers by the dozens. He would never tell her outright, but in the safety of his own mind, he admitted that her miniature army of sunshine brightened the Hall and ignited the melancholy embers with its radiance.

He, on the other hand, had tried to play it safe for the past however many feckin' hours by sticking with roses, but it didn't matter. He'd barely made _any _progress.

"I never really liked roses anyway," she suddenly confessed, as they gloomily beheld the sixth hundred and fifty-second rose that had withered away into the dusty embrace of its brethren.

_"What?"_ He gaped at her incredulously. "What kind of a girl _are_ you? There's no bloody such _thing_ as a wench that doesn't get all weepy-eyed over a few freshly hacked sprigs of indigenous plant life—with thorns, I might add—"

She snorted. "Oh, am I a girl now? Funny, I reckon that just might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me. At least _someone's_ cottoned on by now, even if that someone happens to be a foul-mouthed moron like you. Most days, I don't even think that Harry and Ron can tell the difference—"

Yes, unfortunately, because of _her,_ he _had _cottoned on by now, and it made him want to wring her by her scrawny neck that much more. At the mere suggestion of her more… feminine… attributes, a strange quivering sensation crawled its way into his stomach, twisting and trickling through his gut until the scalding acid sloshed up his throat and threatened to splatter across the ashen canvas.

He barely managed to suppress the first shuddering surge of bile. Already, the sickness recoiled in the pit of his bowels, preparing to slither its way back up. He had to stop it. He had to stop _her._ Hastily, he hacked off her mindless blathering.

"Spit it out," he snapped.

"Spit _what_ out?" she snapped back. "Godric, why do you have to make everything sound so _vulgar?"_

"Can't help it, Mudblood," he sneered. "Your filth has seeped into even the most obscure crevices of this Hall, and it's only a matter of time before I too succumb to the viral disease. So, tell me, what's your paltry excuse for being a freak _this_ time?"

"You think _I'm _a freak? That's rich! Has it ever occurred to you lot that _you're _the freaks? I mean, come on! Roses? _Please!_ They're so overrated," she huffed, crossing her arms.

He could practically hear the steam whistling out of her ears as her overloaded brain debated whether or not to answer his query in greater detail. After a moment or two of crackling deliberation, her glower of distaste softened unexpectedly. She averted her eyes, clearly avoiding him the same way he'd tried to avoid _her _earlier that evening. Despite his morbid curiosity with the logic of her inferior mind, he didn't say a word. Not one word. Because he knew that Granger could never keep quiet for long. And sure enough, she finally spoke.

"When you give someone roses, that person's either dead, ill, or the recipient of false promises," she whispered to the stone beneath her feet. "That's why sunflowers are my favourite. They're plain, and their meaning is simple. All you want is for the other person to smile and be happy, and that's all there is to it. No fancy tripe. No need to prove anything to the world—because it's not perfect, and it's certainly no fairy tale, but it's good enough. And in the end, that's really all that matters, isn't it?"

Right… As if he knew how to respond to _that._

Mental, that one. Absolutely _mental._

"Holy cricket," she muttered, anxiously biting her lip and tensing all of a sudden. "I've never told anyone that." Hastily, she swatted at her face with the sleeves of her robes and fearlessly stared him down with a defiant, watery glare, as if daring him to voice that last thought in his head out loud. "Go ahead and laugh, Malfoy, but you asked, so there you have it!"

Indeed. Still, for some odd reason he couldn't place, he didn't feel right about attacking her when she had her guard down like this, especially since she hadn't rubbed his own fleeting moment of vulnerability in _his_ face. She could have. But she didn't. She didn't, and for now, that swayed him enough not to stomp her into the dirt.

"Honestly, it's not that funny when you have to overanalyse every sodding little thing. It's pathetic, really," he scoffed, inwardly hoping that she would perceive that as a neutral enough response. Well, as neutral as it got coming from him. If he pushed her too far, she would topple over the edge—beyond his reach, and beyond the point of no return. She would lose the will to fight back, and that terrified him more than anything. He didn't have the foggiest idea what he'd do, and he'd rather not know.

The mere notion of the Golden Trio's beacon flickering out and dying—just _dying_—reminded him too much of that summer: the summer of the 422nd Quidditch World Cup, when his father had lead a band of Death Eaters in terrorising the campsite and committing public torture of Muggles and Mudbloods alike. He would probably have taken Granger too if Draco hadn't sneered at Pothead and Weaselbee to hold her big, bushy head down…

At long last, she laughed, the ire dissipating from her eyes and rekindled by that familiar, fiery spirit he had almost come to take for granted. "Pathetic, Malfoy? Not _nearly_ as pathetic as your wandwork."

"I beg to differ, Granger," he shot back, lips curling with contempt. "Even that rank tip over there is more pleasing to the eye than your soggy, puffed-up face. Like the back end of the Knight Bus, the way it—"

That seemed to do the trick. She recovered quickly, and before long, had reverted back to screaming at him for his shoddy flower arrangements. By then, he couldn't help noticing that most of the heat had left her incessant rants. Eventually, she decided that she'd had enough of his backchat—either that, or she'd simply screamed herself hoarse—and balefully settled for silent scrutiny, which he found much more unsettling than her shrill nagging.

Surely, she must have known his reasons for trying so desperately to master this spell. After all, the real Granger had already spotted him in the Owlery that afternoon, but she hadn't pried or interrogated him for more information. He'd made a mistake, and he needed to pay for it. Not with his parents' money, but with _himself._ Some essence of himself… Some piece of his broken soul that had already shattered, yet remained untainted… Before he had none left.

And even though she knew, she said nothing, and for the most part, left him to the privacy of his brooding. It unnerved him, considering his previous experience with her bitchy, know-it-all ways, but somehow, she seemed content with giving him his space for the moment. As for himself, he too kept his distance, despite any hostile inclinations he might have harboured, and refrained from sneering or openly antagonising her for her brief emotional outburst with the roses. Like the best truces, it passed unspoken between the two of them.

For the longest time, silence prevailed.

Once or twice, however, he could've sworn he'd caught a spark of amusement in her eyes, not to mention the occasional, light cough, which he strongly suspected concealed a fit of giggles. He narrowed his eyes. He didn't know how much of Granger's impudence he could take before he finally snapped. Whipping around to snarl at the bint for even_ daring_ to mock him, he froze, horror-struck, as the words fell right out of his mouth.

Her eyes practically glittered with poorly suppressed mirth and her lips twitched playfully at the corners. He'd made Granger laugh. He'd made her _smile._ Not out of derision, but delight. And that deeply disturbed him. Some odd feeling had begun to worm its way inside of him, yet another parasite wriggling through his innards, and it made him feel extremely uncomfortable. He suddenly found himself eager to escape back to reality as soon as possible.

"Fuck this," he muttered, recklessly slashing a crude formation through the air that didn't even remotely resemble a circle, ignoring Granger's horrified squeaks of alarm.

"Wait, Malfoy! _Stop!"_ she yelped, but he paid her screeches no heed.

_"ORCHIDEOUS!"_ he bellowed, forging straight ahead.

"MALFOY, _WATCH OUT!"_ she shrieked.

A thundering swarm of flowers erupted from the ground and slammed straight into him, engulfing his limbs in a tangle of rain-scented petals, sandpapered leaves, and prickling thorns. Then, everything flew apart, crumbling into a shower of death that suffocated his senses and drowned him in its putrid remains. At long last, he finally succumbed to the darkness that awaited him on the other side.

* * *

When he awoke the next morning, he abandoned all hope of salvaging the lost hours of sleep. Tormented by an unspeakable compulsion, he wandered back up to the Owlery, visions of his latest subconscious excursion taunting him every step of the way.

He and Granger had gone off on one of their usual rows, but for the first time in his life, someone had made him feel as if his efforts might have actually accomplished something. Something he could take pride in. Something good. Something right. And it didn't really matter if he failed, because he could always try again. As long as he had the right intentions, his ultimate goal made it all worth it in the end.

But he had chosen to come back to reality, and in this world, such a preposterous ideal would only ever exist in his dreams.

He didn't completely understand what had happened last night, or the strange, tacit agreement that had transpired between him and Granger, but he didn't feel prepared to face the truth. The unnatural sensations plagued him in writhing tendrils, etching jagged runes into his skull that hissed in demonic tongues and bled him dry—numbing him to the point where none of it even seemed sick or _wrong_ anymore, but different. Just different. Foreign.

No. He couldn't—_wouldn't_—go back there again. Not until he'd had some time to mull this shite over in his fucked-up head.

Even now, the residual imagery continued to haunt him. The sight of her mud-stained eyes, shining at him as they transformed into gold. Gold like the sun, rising over a dark world—illuminating the gloom, yet at the same time, casting ominous shadows of doubt. The sound of her muffled, ill-disguised chirps at his pitiful attempts to appease the gods of transfiguration. Chirps of merriment, not malice. The taste of ash upon his tongue, bitter and saturated with regret. Ashes… Ashes… They all fell down…

By the time he'd reached the Owlery, he'd made it just in time to catch the first glimpses of sunrise, marking the end of a long, cold night. He watched its timid ascension in silence, as it shyly peeked over the firmament and kissed the grey sky, painting the dull horizon with effervescent splotches of scarlet and gold.

What had he missed, all this time? What did his magic lack? What had his subconscious tried so desperately to tell him? Sure, he could always try asking it directly, but he had a feeling that things didn't quite work that way. His subconscious clearly fancied a challenge, given its sadistic choice of manifestation. He'd gotten the message wrong once before, but this time, he honestly didn't know. He couldn't understand any of it. He still had no idea what to do, and for every second that he wasted, faltering in his task, his family would pay for it in tenfold.

One last chance, he told himself. One last chance. If it didn't work this time, he would walk out that door and never look back. In less than sixteen years, he had already accumulated a lifetime of regrets. Adding yet another one to the list wouldn't make a difference in the end, for he would surely have many more.

Nodding tersely to his eagle owl, Draco briefly explained to it that he had to make an anonymous delivery to St. Mungo's, and therefore had no need of its services at the moment. His owl hooted in acknowledgement, turned its beak up disdainfully at the randomly selected barn owl, which Draco had beckoned over from the school's dreary assortment, and haughtily soared back up into the topmost rafters.

Carefully, Draco took his wand out from the pocket of his robes, and pointed it at the ground at the exact same angle that Granger had wrenched his arm into about a million times. He carved a perfect circle in the air, following her advice and counting quietly under his breath to set a smooth, consistent pace. Over and over, he repeated the words in his head. According to theory, he had succeeded. He had done everything right. But he knew that reality had a way of complicating things.

In his mind, he envisioned his intended creation, as if he could sustain its life through the sheer force of his will. Yet, unbidden, thoughts of her intruded upon his concentration—nothing more than transient flashes of blind compassion, overbearing brilliance, and a beaming face. Frantically, he staunched the overflow, but at this point, it no longer mattered. It had already bled through. It had already left its stain.

Without uttering a single word, he conjured the brightest, most beautiful, golden sunflower he had ever seen. And this time, it stayed golden, its petals bursting with rapturous light, long after it faded away into the shimmering rays of the rising sun.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
